Force

Today, I write about women of spirit. I’ve met prophets and clairvoyants, salt of the earth, the ornate dressed in flowers, the meek and the mild. I’ve met the fool, the sage, and the dignified rising. I’ve sat quietly with those for whom all has toppled, role obsolete. I am not talking about myself. I am not talking about you. I am talking about all of us, on any given day, and in snapshots, and fallibility, and in moments of truth.

Women of spirit ascend, as they may. Women of integrity stand, as they may. Women of heart love, and disregard, deflecting the cast off sparks, with intention, as they may. Stitching. Unveiling. And women spark, and women submerge, and women envelop, and once in a while, we retreat. We integrate. We push.

Be you the woman of gentle spirit, humble spirit…

Or the brazen and wielding…

Be you the woman of tenure, grace, and wisdom…

Or the newest arrival, emerging face first from the deep, and taking a gasp of harsh, cold, darkest, earliest morning upon surfacing…even again, and again…

Be you the one who touches delicately, seemingly hesitant, speaking few words, and appearing bound by something surreal…

Or the one who fiercely rubs your hands in the sticky, dripping mess, unveiling, prone to bursts of dogmatic fire, and brimstone…

Or tangled, entranced–by the trappings of this mortal life and its sirens on high–the riches, recognition, and that which holds promise, prosperity, abundance, and dharma nouveau…

Be you the one who sees, the one who follows, the one who listens, or the one who tells… Be you the one who is practical, measured, and fenced… Be you the lost, or the found, or the never, ever clear….

You are welcome, welcome, welcome. You are my queen.

And whether we spark or submerge, wall off, envelop, or push a firm hand, palm out, fingers wide, head turned, or eyes wide open staring right into the soul, into the face of a moment, as we roll off one another, we are here, we are bound, we are salve, we are breath, we are force.